Joyful Propositions
by KyinHI
Summary: Because who says you can't churn out some fluffy Christmas fic before Halloween? Inspired by porny twitter people. You girls should be ashamed of yourselves. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

He's driving her crazy. Stark-raving mad, bat-shit, crazy.

It's three days before Christmas and she should be happy, filled with holiday spirit and thrilled that they are spending their first real Christmas together. She's not. She's about ready to shoot him and she's pretty sure it would be justifiable. The man has led her on a wild goose chase all damn day. Nobody would convict her. He's on a mission to find the "perfect" tree and she's thoroughly convinced that it does not exist. It couldn't. Not when they've spent the last eight hours cooped up in her cruiser – because you can't strap a tree to the roof of a Ferrari or Benz - driving from one corner of Long Island to the other, looking for "the one."

They've been to six different lots. Trudged through miles of slushy ground and eaten lunch at a truck stop somewhere in Suffolk County because he couldn't just order a tree or browse the selections of the fine vendors in the city. Oh no. Her maddening boyfriend is a 'choose and cut' kind of guy.

His fingers tap on the dash as she presses a little too hard on the accelerator and aims the Crown Vic towards the last on his list of tree farms.

"Jeez," he says. "Slow down, we've got all day."

No. Actually they don't. The sun is low in the sky, the windows are fogged up, the heat in the car is suffocating and dry, and every time she rolls down a window to let in a little fresh air he complains that he can't feel his face.

She presses harder on the pedal in response to his whining. She grinds her teeth and refrains from replying vocally. It wouldn't be pretty.

The miles fly by, an endless stretch of white and grey, a sprinkling of emerald where evergreens remain standing. The tap, tap, tap of his fingers and the sideways glances he's giving her, are slowly turning her blood to a bubbling pool of molten lava. When she comes to a straight stretch of freeway, she looks over to him, raises a brow and lets her eye flit back and forth between his thrumming fingers and his oblivious face.

He gets the hint and stops with the tapping. She breathes a sigh of relief.

It doesn't last long.

"You didn't have to come," he says. She's looking at the road but she knows he's sporting an impressive pout.

The tree farm is half a mile ahead according to a weathered sign on the side of the road. She speeds up, throws the car into the parking lot and finally turns to face him. Her knuckles grip tightly on the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel, her nails – she's let them grow out, having been off work for two weeks – dig painfully into her palms.

"I didn't have to come?" she repeats, incredulous.

He had practically begged her to come. She'd shown some skepticism in the wisdom of leaving town for a tree when there were a hundred and one perfectly fine places selling trees within the borders of Manhattan. He had won her over with a boyish smile and the promise that it would be quick. They'd be back in time for lunch, he had said. She can still taste the gas station hot dog, metallic and mysterious in its ingredients. The wrapper had said, 'all beef'. She wonders exactly what part of the cow had gone into the greasy and limp tube of meat. She wonders how a bun that had sat in a steamer for god knows how long managed to be so very dry. She wonders what kind of a hot dog vendor doesn't also provide mustard or ketchup.

"I…" he gulps. "It's just, you seemed like you wanted to?"

And she had. Yesterday, before _today_ happened.

"I did. Before I realized that buying a tree with you would be akin to searching for a wedding dress, rather than a quick trip to buy a hunk of wood that will be brown and sitting on the curb within a week."

His face relaxes, the pained and slightly confused expression lifted by what she's said.

"You've been searching for a wedding dress?"

Shit. He wasn't supposed to know about that. In the evening, while he writes, she sits cocooned among a half dozen pillows on their bed, browsing the internet. She has found herself repeatedly drawn back to websites full of sparkling diamonds and shiny platinum. It's bad enough that she knows what kind of ring she wants when he hasn't shown any indication of asking, it's worse that she just let it slip that dresses are on her mind. The sites selling wedding dresses are even worse than the jewelers. V-neck or halter? Empire or drop waist? There are a hundred different options and none of them quite call to her. And yet… she is powerless to stop clicking 'next.'

"That's not the point, Castle."

"I think you'd look great in a scoop-neck," he continues, completely ignoring her comment. "It'd show off your collarbones. You _know _how I love your collarbones."

His eyebrows waggle and he leers in her direction, bringing up memories of last night. She huffs. She's mad at him, damn it.

Damn him, too. He's right. She hadn't even considered a scoop-neck. She loved all the 'V's but could never find the perfect one, something about them not feeling quite right. But a scoop would be low enough to be sexy, and high enough to cover the scar. She doesn't want him to have a reminder of their worst day while she's walking down the aisle. She's slightly worried that he even knows these things; both the construction of a dress and the apparent direct link to her subconscious.

His fingers begin to tap again in the stretched out silence. Any thoughts of forgiving him are thrown out the window with the thump of skin on plastic.

"Let's just go get the damn tree."

"Fine," he says.

"Fine," she agrees, slamming the door before trudging up behind him.

The farm is almost deserted. The sun is setting and a man dressed in a thick coat sits huddled over a fire that burns in an old fifty gallon drum.

"Lot closes in half an hour," he calls, not getting up. "Come and get me when you find one and I'll cut it down and wrap it up."

"You mind if we chop it ourselves?" Castle asks.

She rolls her eyes behind his back. The romance of chopping their own tree lost its luster three or four farms ago.

The man points to a rack by the first row of trees. "Knock yourself out."

Castle perks up and runs ahead; Kate takes a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh and hurries to catch up with him. God, she hopes there's a tree that meets his criteria in this lot. Their chances can only diminish as the days until Christmas tick along.

"How 'bout this one?" she asks, as they wander down a row of Douglas firs.

"Eh…" She takes a deep breath and wills herself not to smack him upside the head. It's tall, at least ten feet, it's bushy, and it's green. What more does he want? "We'll know it when we see it," he says.

"Is this one of those 'magic' things, Rick?"

"I thought you had warmed to the idea of magic?"

She had. She _has._ But she had had plans for tonight, a little magic of her own. Between a short, red number that she'd picked up at Victoria's Secret, and a good bottle of Pinot, she wouldn't have needed an "alakazam" to enchant him.

The sun has set, the air is frigid; she just wants an aspirin and an open fire. Perhaps a second bottle of wine to sooth her nerves.

"At this point I'd just like to be warm," she says.

"Touché, Detective."

His face says it all. Hurt and resignation swims in his eyes, his jaw is set in a determined line. He turns toward the tree, carrying the axe.

She feels awful. He has unknowingly spoiled the surprise, her plans of wining and dining him, of wowing him with sexy underwear. His unbridled enthusiasm had gotten in the way, but he's not to blame; he couldn't have known. She however, has tainted his wide-eyed enthusiasm because she woke up with a headache and the car's stale heater had only made it worse. Instead of letting him know, she'd plastered on a happy face and hoped for the best. She's been taking it out on him all day with her lack of patience and inability to share in his fervor.

She tilts her head up, closing her eyes and willing the universe to give her the answers, to help her get their day back on track. When they had woken this morning, she'd been so looking forward to sharing in this tradition with him.

Something cold lands on her cheek, and then again, a prick of sensation on her eyelid. One and then another until she smiles. She opens her eyes slowly, watches as the tiny little specks flutter down to earth.

It's snowing. It lands on his shoulders and dusts his hair with white flecks that disappear almost as soon as they materialize. He's raising the axe, his shoulders flexing and his strong arms bulking up as he prepares to make the first swing. It's not exactly a sign, but it's magical none the less.

"Rick, wait…" she says, gently touching his shoulder.

His arm lowers, the axe dangling uselessly at his side. He turns to her, his face weary, a forced smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry," she says.

He recoils a little, and she doesn't blame him. After all, it's not often she apologizes with words. She's more of a shower than a teller.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, softer this time. "Let's go find our tree."

He smiles and takes her hand, his eyes twinkling and his cheeks rosy from the cold.

"And _there's _my girl."

She rolls her eyes for the girl comment but snuggles into his side anyway. She kind of likes being_ his_ girl. In the past, the phrase would have set off alarms and sent her running; with him, it feels right.

It doesn't take them long to find a tree once they are back in synch. They wander for a bit, weaving between the rows and fingering needles as they pass trees both magnificent and spindly; none of them quite right. They turn out of a row and find themselves in an open field.

The area has been reduced to nothing but stumps and turned-over soil. Boot tracks and drag marks are all over the expanse. And there, amongst the ruins of what must have once held the oldest and largest firs, sits a poor excuse for a Christmas tree.

It is tall, she will give it that; at least ten feet. But its branches droop and it's a bit… thin in spots. On one side the branches protrude further than the other, giving the tree an asymmetrical line that does nothing to add to its attractiveness. Still…

"She's beautiful," he says.

Snow has accumulated in the barer patches, a light dusting hiding its flaws. The moonlight lends an eerie and colorful sparkle as the ice reflects its glow. It's not perfect, not by any means, but she feels for this tree. Ridiculous as that might sound. No doubt she was once full and beautiful, a majestic fir with a lumpy rear-end. This single flaw had let her be passed over time and time again until she had begun to wilt under her own weight. Still, she stands; grand and regal amongst the ruins of other trees that have probably begun to turn brown in their temporary homes. He's right, she is beautiful.

God. When did she begin referring to trees as 'she'? Oh, right… She's in love with Rick Castle.

"She?" she questions with a grin and a raised brow.

"Well, look at her ass," he laughs, "no way that kind of butt belongs on a man."

She lets her eyes slowly travel down his body and toward his rear. Ignorance must really be bliss.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately, Rick?" She grabs a handful of his meaty cheeks and digs her fingers into his flesh, lining up their hips and speaking into his ear. He's right; most men she has known have had little to no ass whatsoever. She has appreciated his rounder than average rear-end for years; since well before she permitted herself to enjoy a piece of it. "Not that I'm complaining, but you're packing quite a load of junk in your own trunk, Mr. Castle."

He huffs and pulls her tighter into his embrace. "Nothing about this ass is junk, Ms. Beckett," he says, flexing his muscles, effectively pushing his hips further into hers. She feels how the close quarters are already affecting him, up against her belly.

"Time and a place," she scolds with a grin.

They simply cannot start something in the middle of a field, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter. There's adventurous, and then there's just plain crazy.

Instead, she removes her hands and slides them up his body. She rests her palms on his jaw, allows her fingers to rest below his ears, the soft pads of her fingers grazing along the rough stubble.

She's glad that he didn't bother to shave in his eagerness to go tree shopping; she's told him about her love for the facial hair, even tried to cajole him into keeping it by calling him ruggedly handsome. But he refuses. She thinks it has something to do with his past, about proving something to her and to the world about the man Richard Castle has become.

He says it's so he doesn't hurt her when he's engaging in one of his most favorite pastimes. And she can't very well argue with that, can she? The man is a master; with his tongue and his talented mouth, below the belt.

She lets her thumbs run over the prickly whiskers on his jawline. He leans in, almost imperceptibly, and she thinks he's going to kiss her.

"Feels like a good time to me," he murmurs against her face.

His breath comes out in hot puffs against the chilled skin on her cheeks, their noses bumping and nudging at each other. Twin smiles, lip to lip, not quite kissing, but not exactly platonic, line up and press to each other. They sway. Standing in the moonlight, in a barren field, and shivering with both the warmth of each other's touches and the bitter cold of the night, they sway to a melody that speaks of endurance and acceptance, openness and love.

Reluctantly, she's the first to break the spell.

She pulls his bottom lip into her mouth, suckles for a moment, until he lets out a groan. It's then that she releases his mouth. Perhaps this night can be salvaged after all. Her headache has gone now, replaced by the happy buzz of endorphins and the comfort that his embrace provides. It's late, but she has nowhere to be tomorrow. She's off until the New Year, the threat of "use it, or lose it", for the first time in her career, actually carrying weight. She took all her vacation time and if she wants to sleep in until noon, then she will.

She lays one last peck on his lips and he moves to drag her back in with his mouth. She pulls away and playfully slaps him on the chest.

"Go cut down our tree, lumberjack."

He pouts.

"I'd prefer to continue this," he says, darting forward and snagging her lips with his own. His tongue trails a seductive path along her lips and she savors it for a few moments more before tugging herself away.

"I'll make it worth your while…"

That perks him right up, and successfully removes him from her mouth.

"Dear God, I am hoping you are talking sexy payback and not monetary. I'm a wealthy man you know; I have no need for your gratuities."

"Oh, _I_ won't be the one leaving a tip by the time we're done, Castle."

She runs a nail up his chest, smirking as he tracks her meandering path with his eyes. "But I think _you'll _be feeling _very_ grateful once I'm finished with you."

He stands still, staring at her in wonder, looking a little slack-jawed and a lot turned on. She removes her finger and smiles lazily at him.

"The tree, Rick. Cut it down."

He doesn't need to be told again, it's the fastest she's seen him move all day.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone on Twitter for the push to write this. It was just the diversion I needed to get back into the swing of things writing-wise.**

**To Deb and Avi for giving it a once over and not hating it. Muah!**


	2. Chapter 2

He had cut the tree with amazing speed, lugged it on his back all the way to the front of the farm. It took them half an hour to find the tree. It took five minutes to get it back to the entrance.

Amazing what a little motivation will do for the man, she thinks with a grin, as she pulls into the parking garage for his building.

He had thrown at least triple what the tree was worth at the vendor and tapped his feet impatiently while he waited for the fir to be bagged and strapped to the roof of her cruiser. She's pretty sure he pressed another wad of hundred dollar bills into the man's hand as she got into the car as well.

If that's the kind of gratuity he's used to leaving, she's glad she has other ways of paying him back.

His wealth doesn't surprise her anymore. She's grown used to Egyptian cotton sheets and gourmet coffee; she now owns a plot of land on the moon, adjoining his of course. Those things speak to his belief in magic and an appreciation for comfort.

He's humble though, would prefer take out or a home cooked meal over lavish dinners at expensive restaurants. Would rather spend his money on an extra parking space for her, she thinks, as she puts the car in park and opens the door, than buying a new car or paying for a service. He's thoughtful. Comfort would demand he buy her a Mercedes or a Lexus, but consideration for her feelings made him accept the old Vic and instead pay for a monthly detailing service.

He complains that she never lets him buy her stuff. He spoils her, she thinks.

It is small gestures though, that still have the ability to surprise her. Like a tip to a struggling farmer, who has a month out of the year to make the bulk of his income. He could have written a check to a reputable charity and earned himself a tax write-off. Instead he quietly handed over the contents of his wallet and moved on. It makes her love him all the more.

Restraint however, is not one of his strongest points.

She begins untying the tree, cursing as she breaks a nail on the knot. It tears down to the quick and she sucks on her thumb to ease the throbbing. He hurries to her side of the car and pulls her finger out of her mouth, inspecting her thumb and bringing it to his lips.

"Really Castle? It's just a nail."

"It's _your_ nail."

Sometimes, cheesy doesn't seem nearly sufficient to describe this man. At other times, there is a deep sincerity in his voice that she cannot help but swoon over when it makes an appearance.

This is one of those times.

But there is a tree to be hauled upstairs, wine to be opened, and an outfit waiting that simply screams, "Merry Christmas." She had promised to make it worth his while, so she pulls her hand out of his grasp and pats him lightly on the cheek instead of throwing him down in the back seat like her fluttering belly implores her to.

"Get the tree, Castle," she says. Her request comes out soft and husky. If she is supposed to be the one showing restraint she is doing a poor job.

"Don't wanna," he says, turning her and pushing her onto the driver's side door. "Let do this instead."

His hands are sliding inside her jacket, cold fingers searching under the layers of winter clothing, tracing her ribs and making her shudder.

"The tree…" she whines as he suckles on her collarbone.

"Can wait," he says.

He attacks her neck with vigor and she sighs, sliding down the cool metal of the car's door as his stubble tickles behind her ear. She grunts, inwardly cursing that his wool coat is knee length and severely impeding her ability to get a good grip on his ass. He pulls back; and she feels a twinge of disappointment that his moment of distraction has seemingly halted. Didn't he just say the tree could wait?

But then she's being pulled by the wrist in the direction of the elevator, she grins and hurries her footsteps to keep pace with him. He's bouncing on his heels as they wait. She's smirks, until she realizes that she's doing it too. She's lost in her head, thinking about the last time he had pressed up against her in an elevator, when a loud ding announces the car's arrival. She jumps and he chuckles.

"Easy, Tiger," he purrs into her ear, brushing against her side as he enters ahead of her. She's still standing, a little shell-shocked, between the doors when the elevator dings again. His eyes sparkle with mirth as he leans up against the handrail at the back of the elevator. "You comin'?" he asks.

"Soon," she growls, throwing herself into his arms and roughly bringing her lips to his. His breath hitches and his hands span her waist. She finds herself turning and being hoisted up onto the handrail as the elevator makes its slow ascent. Her legs hook around his thighs and his grip tightens on her ass, lifting her high and bracing her against the wall until she straddles him, her legs circling his waist. He pants, and she whimpers as he nibbles under her chin.

Her heart hammers in her chest as his hands fumble between the leather of her jacket and the wool of her sweater. "Damn it," he mutters when he finally gets below the jersey and finds the cotton of her shirt.

In theory, elevator sex is always a turn on for Kate. In practice, they've had mixed results. Short dresses and skyscrapers work, winter clothing and a low-rise, not so much. There are just too many layers to work around and not nearly enough floors in his building. The elevator makes its final declaration with a loud electronic beep and the doors smoothly slide open. He groans and she slides back down to the floor.

She grips his hand and all but drags him to the front door. "Keys," she demands.

He fumbles with the lock while she toys with the belt loops on his pants, slowly walking her fingers toward his buckle. "Not helping," he grunts. She rolls her eyes and removes her hands, giving him a moment to open the door. With shaky hands he finally flips the lock and they stumble haphazardly towards the bedroom. Their clothing is left in messy piles along the way.

They make love messily and fast, he never even makes it onto the bed. She collapses backwards onto the mattress, pulling him between the V of her open legs with her heels. He grips her thighs, drags her further toward him until she is just barely lying on the edge of the bed. Her lifts her ass then, throwing her ankles over his shoulder and quickly he enters her. It's sharp, almost painful; but it's deep too, intensely pleasurable and exactly what she wants in this moment. He smirks down at her, obviously enjoying this show of dominance. It's a clearing of the air, an animalistic and feral punishment. For a days' worth of withholding her feelings and an hours' car drive worth of denying him access to her thighs, all the while shooting him lustful glances and secret smiles; she submits to him with pleasure.

Within minutes she falls apart, quaking under him as he spills into her with a series of grunts and nonsensical words, declarations and expletives. He collapses onto her and she lets out an '_oomph' _of surprise and a gasp of air as his weight hits her square in the chest.

"I love you, too," she laughs into his neck as he lies sprawled on top of her, sweating and exhausted. "Now get the hell off of me, you're heavy."

"Can't… move," he grunts into her hair.

"Castle…" she warns.

"Ugh! Fine," he moans, rolling off her and collapsing onto his back beside her on the bed.

She's a trembling container of bones and skin as she catches her breath, limp and satiated. His fingers twine with hers and she closes her eyes for a moment. Heat radiates off their bodies, she feels clammy and sticky. When her stomach grumbles, she makes the decision, albeit reluctantly, to rise.

"Shower," she says, when he grumbles in protest of her leaving. It's an offer if he wants to join her. She's pretty sure it's more informative than anything else though. He's already dozing, and apart from the occasional twitch of his fingers, he hasn't moved a muscle since he flopped down onto the bed.

"Mm… yeah," he grunts.

"You've got twenty minutes," she calls from the bathroom door. "Then we're having dinner."

"Mm."

She laughs and shakes her head, turning to the shower and twisting the faucets to a lukewarm temperature. What is it with men and the after-sex exhaustion? It always leaves her feeling energized and keyed up. She can already feel the post-orgasm limpness wearing off and the surge of vitality coming to the forefront. She thinks maybe they should bring up the tree after all. They could decorate it; the twinkling of fairy lights will add to effect that the little red teddy is going to have on him.

Yeah, it's good that he's napping. He's going to need his rest.

* * *

**More Xmas fluff! To the people reading Hard Candy, I haven't forgotten about you or that story. I even have the file open! Update on that one... soonish. Promise!**

**Deb is awesome. And great at pointing out vague sexual positions and making me fix them. Thanks, babe!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The last update got lost by FFN and never made it back to the top of the list. I think a few people may have missed the update for chapter two. Go ahead and read that first if so. *waves fists angrily***

* * *

He remembers her voice and something about taking a shower. He remembers thinking that he should join her and make an attempt at round two. Round one had been embarrassingly quick. Still, she hadn't complained. Quite the opposite in fact, if the shouts of, "Oh!" and "Castle!" and "Fuck yeah," were any indication.

He grins, pleased with himself and breathes in the smell of her shampoo as it permeates the room. He can't have been out for too long, the water is still running. Her scent swirls around the humid air; it will only last a few minutes, the steam from the bathroom magnifying the aroma and sending it in heady bursts across the bedroom.

He has to work to smell it in the daytime, her deodorant and perfume covering the smell that he so closely associates with her. The most basal of Beckett fragrances is this one. It's reserved for the night and stolen moments of intimacy during the daylight hours; it's his favorite. He makes himself comfortable on the bed and leaves her to enjoy the shower; there will be plenty of time for fun later. He spends a few minutes relishing in his contentment and marveling at his luck.

Had he have been asked two years ago, he might have said that he'd stopped believing in happily ever afters and magic. But then she'd arrived at his door, an apparition he didn't dare let himself believe in, her rain soaked hair smelling of vanilla and cherries. He had lazed beside her later that night, with her soft breath washing over his chest and an arm draped around his waist. He had breathed into her hair and inhaled her scent, like it was an elixir that would cure all his ills. He had let go of the hurt and allowed himself to once again have hope for a future with Kate Beckett at his side.

He sits up and pulls open his nightstand, rummages under some papers and pulls out a box. He runs his hands over the leather covering, cringes when the hinge squeaks, and throws a quick glance toward the bathroom. The water still runs, he hears the soft melody of her humming some pop song, and a curse when a bottle falls to the floor. He smiles; she is none the wiser.

He runs his fingers over the velvet interior, lets them trail over the cool circle of metal. He thanks the universe for the invention of tracking cookies and smart advertising. She'd asked him to Google something one day early in the summer, and he'd gotten distracted by Twitter and Facebook. He had browsed the internet while she worked on some long neglected paperwork. Next thing he knew, the banners were leading him on a merry path down 'Kate Wants to Get Married, Lane'. It didn't take a guru to follow her history trail and figure out her most revisited pages.

He admires the ring, with its simple design and flawless craftsmanship. An emerald cut center stone, flanked by two smaller diamonds. Set in platinum, it was simple, elegant, and gorgeous. It was Kate. He'd made an excuse and called his contact at Cartier the very same day. It had been burning a hole in his nightstand a week later and calling to him for the last four months. On more than one occasion his arm, as if by its own volition, had reached toward the drawer, aching to slip it on her finger. But the perfect situation had never quite presented itself, and so he had waited.

He closes the box and stashes it back down under the clutter. Not today, but soon.

He hops off the bed and throws on a pair of jeans. An old t-shirt, which she has taken to claiming as her own, hangs over the back of a chair. He pulls it over his head and makes for the door; he'll get the tree while she showers. He hopes that the simple joy of decorating the misshapen tree together will help to wash away any lingering annoyances from earlier in the day.

Castle knows she had been planning something for tonight, knows that his indecision and determination to find the perfect tree had cut into her plans and all but swept them aside. He didn't know it at the time, but the spark of devilish glee in her eyes as she'd promised to make hurrying worth his while, had quickly clued him in. She had more than just a quickie in mind; Kate Beckett was up to something and reflecting on it, he knows now that she wasn't the only one who had almost ruined their day with a lack of communication. He'd been so wrapped up in his quest to find the tree that he'd missed vital clues that his partner was on edge.

He wonders if Kate will mock him for naming the tree. Probably, he thinks with a grin as he opens the front door. He wonders if she'll go with it anyway. Probably, he thinks, chuckling as he hits the elevator button. She's a lot more whimsical than she would like to admit; he likes to think he has played a large part in drawing out the quirky side of her. He doesn't doubt that it was always there, but he knows it has taken a lot of courage for her to entrust him with it.

Poor Clarice, he thinks, when the elevator doors open to the garage and he sees the tree lying unevenly on top of the Crown Vic. She has slipped partly off the roof and leans awkwardly towards where Kate had begun untying the ropes. A pile of needles collects on the concrete floor and he uses his feet to quickly brush them aside.

"Don't look," he tells the tree as he begins untying the other knot and another flutter of needles falls to the ground.

"I've got you," he says as he hauls her off the car and into his arms.

He stands Clarice up as he reaches the elevator and pushes the button; he hums Christmas Carols while he waits for the elevator to return.

"Don't squirm," he scolds, as the tree rocks on the unevenly cut trunk.

He has his arm wrapped securely around its trunk like one might hold up a drunk by the waist; it itches and burns a little where the needles poke into the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "Ouch!" he complains, shifting his weight and rubbing at his flank.

"Come on," he says, dragging her into the elevator when the doors slide open. "Almost there. We'll give you a good home."

The doors close and he laughs when he realizes that he's been making small talk with a Christmas tree.

He opens the front door, jostling the tree and dragging it towards the living room, leaving another shower of needles in its wake. Kate, meanders to his side from the kitchen and helps him to steady Clarice while he runs to the hallway closet to grab the stand.

"You could have waited for me to help," she smiles, taking in his tired posture and sweaty appearance. She braces a hand on the tree's trunk and helps to steady its wobbling bulk.

"I wanted to surprise you," he shrugs, dropping to his knees and gesturing for her to lift.

"Aw, that's sweet, Castle." He grins at her, motions again for her to lift.

She hoists the tree with surprising ease and he grunts and curses from his position on the floor, as yet more needles fall into his face, obscuring his view of the small hollow that he is somehow supposed to secure the tree into. He coughs and splutters a little, spitting the bitter tasting needles out of his mouth.

Finally, he guides the tree over the hole and Clarice falls into place. Kate holds her steady while he turns the screws into the trunk, gingerly she sets it free and he lets out a sigh of relief when the fir doesn't come crashing down on top of him.

He looks up at Kate from his position on the floor. His eyes travel along the tanned expanse of her calves, upwards, admiring her thighs, until he reaches the soft pink cotton of her shorts. He peruses higher, up and under the material. She's not wearing any panties.

"Ahem…"

Sheepishly, he raises his eyes to meet hers.

"What? You can't blame a man for looking." She shakes her head in mock disgust.

"Especially…" He walks his fingers over her toes, drags his fingers down the hollows between the fine bones of her foot. "…when the view is so incredibly spectacular."

He curls his fingers around her ankle and strokes at the soft skin he finds along her Achilles tendon, again lets his eyes dart between her grinning face and the inviting vision of naked flesh between her thighs.

She smirks and shakes her foot out of his grasp, strides sexily back towards the kitchen, hips swinging, leaving him eager to feel more of her skin under his palms. The exertion that hauling the tree up from the garage had left him with is erased, the huffing and puffing replaced with more of a breathless sense of arousal.

"Go take a shower, Castle. You stink."

"Spoil sport," he gripes, rising up from the floor and wincing as his knees crack. Perhaps a shower wouldn't be a terrible idea. The warm water will sooth his tired muscles and Kate might have a point. He does smell a little rank.

The shower had been a wonderful idea. As he leaned back on the tile wall and let the water flow over him, he had sighed as he felt the knots in his shoulders ease. He took his time under the hot spray, cleaning under his nails and washing his hair twice. He shaved, used Kate's body wash instead of his shaving cream. Partly because he liked the smell, mainly because he knows it annoys her and he's not above pissing her off just a little if it means more make-up sex.

He gets out of the shower and dries himself off quickly, realizing that he's been letting time get away from him in the luxurious cave of comfort that is his master bathroom. Kate will understand though, on many an occasion he's had to come and drag her out of the tub and into bed amid protests of "five more minutes" and "but the jets, Castle, the jets!" He's not a huge fan of the tub, his bulk making it uncomfortable to stay in there too long. But the shower, with its rotating spray and adjustable nozzles, six jets of pure bliss and massage settings, makes it easy for him to understand her reluctance to leave.

He pulls on a pair of pajama pants, grinning; he wears the soft, blue and white checkered cotton that he knows Kate likes. He's not sure if it's the almost see-through material or the fact that the elastic has blown, leaving the pants to ride low on his hips, held up only by drawstrings that he doesn't pull tight. What he does know is that she finds it hard to keep her hands to herself when he wears them. It's enough to make him do laundry twice as much as he used to.

He drags the towel through his wet hair one last time and throws it in the general direction of the bathroom. It lands with a damp thud on the hardwood floor; one more little thing to irritate her and send her into a huff. He'd feel guilty, but he's fairly sure she's onto him; almost certain that she enjoys his game just as much as he does.

He steps through his office and into the living room in awe. The loft has been transformed. She has gone ahead and dragged the tree over by the window. Clarice is wrapped in at least a couple strings of white fairy lights, enough to fill in where the abused tree has become bare and but not so much as to detract from her natural beauty. Candles have been lit, on end tables and along the counter, and the fireplace burns low in the dining room. A comforting orange glow greets him as he wanders, astonished, around his home. Exactly how long _had _he been showering?

"Kate?"

The smell of cinnamon and spices permeates the air and throughout the apartment the sounds of soft Carols play. He walks into the kitchen and finds a platter of crackers and cheese, fruits and a variety of nuts. She has placed a bottle of his very best red on the counter. It sits uncorked and breathing, mixing with the air and softening its flavor profile. It seems she has thought of everything. If he could paint a picture of Christmas in one of his books, this would be it. The only thing missing is _her_.

"Kate?" he calls again, louder, wondering where she has gotten to.

"Up here," she says and his head swivels to the flight of stairs.

He is caught breathless. Atop the staircase she stands, her hair falling in soft waves, her eyes glinting with love and the deep, emerald sparkle of seduction. His gaze drops from her face, taking in the spectacle that somehow manages to be his girlfriend. He wonders how he ever got so lucky.

She is dressed in what can only be described as a naughty Mrs. Claus outfit. Decidedly naughty. A short, red velour jacket that hits her mid-thigh and a thick leather belt, with a gold metal buckle, leave little to the imagination. The jacket is fur trimmed, around the collar and the cuffs, and along the skirt line; peeks of her shapely legs tantalize between where the outfit ends and the knee high leather boots begin.

He gulps and clears his throat, tries to form a sentence but is merely left gaping as she makes her slow descent down the stairs.

"What's the matter, Castle," she purrs, grinning in his direction and biting on her lips. "Cat got your tongue?"

"I… err… and you…"

"I what?" she hums.

He needs to pull himself together so he focuses instead on the box she holds in her hands. It seems she has found his decorations. He leaves them stashed in a hallway closet, and as his addled mind centers on the garlands and adornments rather than the vision in red and white that is his girlfriend, he finally registers where she has been. The glittery and reflective glass balls shimmer in the soft light, and he smiles at the recollection of memories and the new ones he hopes to make with her.

"You're killing me," he growls as she finally reaches the landing and stops her torturous journey to his side.

She laughs as he takes the box from her hands. He lets it fall to the floor and she cringes as the distinctive sound of glass shattering reaches their ears. "Castle…" she whines, "the ornaments."

He pulls her into his arms and assaults her lips, trails his hands through her hair, pulls it back so that he has access to the smooth and buttery column of her neck. She lets out a moan as his tongue glides along the muscles of her collarbone and then dips into the hollow that he loves so much.

"Castle… we gotta…."

"Don't care," he says as his teeth nibble behind her ear, letting his hands stray under the jacket and climb up her thighs. He feels another layer of fabric underneath, this one shorter and softer still; he simply _has_ to get her out of this jacket and discover what else she has in store for him. He retracts his hands, and paws his way to the buckle at her waist.

"Uh-uh," she chides, panting, but apparently enough under control to block his path and halt his forward progress. Her hands go to her waist and cover his, her fingers tightening around his palms and effectively stopping him from opening his present early. "First we eat, and then we decorate…"

She pulls his hands up to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. "And then, if you're especially good, I'll let you have dessert and open your present."

She pries open his fingers with her hands and uses her mouth to slide his index finger in between her lips; for a moment he thinks he might pass out. Her tongue swirls around the digit and she suckles on his finger, her eyes glassy and glinting with merriment. His head swims with arousal, and just when he thinks that he won't be able to control himself a moment longer, that he will have to take her, right there on the stairs, she just as quickly retracts her mouth and lets his finger fall out with a wet pop.

"Come on, Castle," she calls over her shoulder as she struts away from him.

"Right… dinner," he chokes out, staring at his hand as it dangles limply at his side.

The joyous sound of her laughter rings in his ears as the blood slowly returns to his brain. He'll be lucky if he survives the night.

* * *

**You know... three updates in three days? It has to be some kind of record for me. Reward me with your reviews! They feed my muse and make me giddy as a school girl on her first date. No jokes. They make me _that _happy. You don't want me to be sad do you?**

**Many thanks to Deb and Avi, they both basically had no changes to make. But they totally rock at finding typos. That also makes me giddy. The lack of changes, not the typos.**

**I get giddy a lot. It might have something to do with the Monster energy drink addiction... Something for me to think about. *pops another can* Later...**


	4. Chapter 4

Kate leaves him slack-jawed and gasping at the foot of the stairs. She loves that even more than a year later, she can still surprise him. If anything, consummating their relationship had only increased the tension between them. Now, they both know exactly what they are missing out on when the job and appearances require that they play it professional. Stolen moments in the break room or on the way to a crime scene only exacerbate the situation. More than once, Gates has caught them compromised and sent them home, threatening to kick him out of the precinct for good.

She smiles, recalling when their Captain had finally let the cat out of the bag.

Castle had been gone on a book tour, merely ten days, but for Kate, only six months into their new relationship it had felt like an eternity. A murder had fallen across her desk and she had tried valiantly to refrain from calling Castle and asking for his advice, had convinced herself that her emotions were under control and that Gates was none the wiser about their relationship or the fact that she felt like she was missing a limb instead of a partner. She had been sitting on her desk, idly staring at a half-empty murder board and fiddling with Castle's paperclip chain when Captain Gates had sat down beside her.

* * *

"_Call him," she said, eyeing the paperclips._

_Kate startled, and proceeded to play dumb. They had been so careful. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of their secret finally being out to the one person who could bring it all crashing down._

"_Call him," Gates repeated, removing the chain from her hands, picking up Kate's phone from the desk and pressing it into her palm. "For all our sakes, Detective Beckett, call your boyfriend."_

_She gaped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Gates knew! And yet… she didn't sound particularly upset. She almost sounded… maternal? This couldn't be right._

"_I… Captain… it's not like that between us."_

"_Save it," she replied, her tone becoming serious. "Lying by omission I will tolerate, but lying to my face? It wouldn't be advised Detective Beckett."_

_Kate nodded. "Yes Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."_

"_Make sure it doesn't happen again," she said, rising and straightening her skirt._

"_Sir?" Kate called out as Gates returned to her office._

_The Captain turned around and raised an eyebrow. _

"_How did you know?"_

_The older woman smiled and walked back towards Kate's desk. _

"_Despite rumors to the contrary, Kate, I am not made of iron. I can spot a couple in love just as well as anybody else can."_

_Kate had the good sense to blush and duck her head in shame. They thought they had been so careful. Captain Gates placed her hand on Kate's back and squeezed, warm fingers curling for just a moment over her shoulder; Kate found the gesture surprisingly warm, comforting even. _

"_Also," Gates added, when Kate finally looked up, a look of devilish glee that Kate hadn't thought the Captain capable of, "the night on the rooftop, and the days afterwards, until Maddox was killed?" _

_Kate gulped. _

"_I had a protective detail on you." _

_Realization dawned, the Captain had known all along. _

"_It didn't slip their attention that you and Mr. Castle had been spending nights at each other's places."_

"_Shit," Kate let slip, covering her mouth in horror. "All this time?" she whispered around her hand._

_Gates chuckled and Kate was sure for at least a moment that she had slipped into some kind of alternate reality. _

"_Keep it on the down low," Gates had said with stern eyes. "And if anything ever happens to compromise your partnersh.."_

"_It won't." Kate cut her off, fiercely determined. "It won't."_

"_Make sure that it doesn't," she said, turning on her heels and retreating to her office._

* * *

And the conversation had been over. Just like that. She hadn't needed to fight for him, to beg or plead, or quit her job. All they had to do was keep on acting professional while working at the precinct.

If only they'd known how hard that would be, she thinks, smiling as she pours the wine into glasses. She grins at the soft sound of his bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor, alerted to his renewed sense of self, his path to her side. He's never too far behind, even if she does once in a while leave him gob smacked and tripping over his own feet.

He makes himself known by wrapping his arms around her waist. She leans back into his muscular chest and awaits his groping hands. He makes his objective clear though when a hand snakes out and grabs a cube of cheese and a cracker from the platter she had prepared. She's slightly surprised and a little disappointed that his intentions were so pure.

"Castle!" she scolds, playfully swatting at his hand.

"What?" he mumbles in her ear from around a mouthful of cracker, reaching forward again to snag another. "I'm just eager to get to _dessert._"

"Yeah, well if you make yourself sick, I won't be playing the role of naughty nurse."

"Killjoy," he breathes into her ear.

She shivers as his hot breath travels down her neck, wonders why they insist on playing these games; continues playing them anyway.

"'Eh... short, white vinyl is really not my style."

"You say that like you know from experience."

His hands wander around her clavicle, fingers toying with the plush white fur around her neck.

"Are you implying that this isn't the only outfit you have stashed in that kinky box of yours?"

"Actually," she grins, turning around and looking him in the eye. "It is."

His face falls, pouting and disappointed.

He doesn't need to know, she thinks, smug and pleased with herself, that she has already moved all of her most delicate and risqué undergarments into his closet already. Let it be a pleasant surprise, come spring when he switches out the winter coats for sport jackets and finds her lingerie nestled up against his swim trunks.

He _must_ have noticed that she has all but moved into the loft. She didn't ask and he didn't offer, but over the course of a year and a half, everything that she holds near and dear has already found a home within his apartment.

She had brought over her guitar one night early on, sick of his begging to hear her play, and it had never left, finding a home alongside the grand piano. Her favorite books mingle with his on the shelves, rounding out his impressive collection. Her make-up sits on the bathroom counter, her clothes tumble with his in the dryer; her favorite brand of juice is in the fridge and her car is parked in the garage.

She wonders why she still bothers to pay rent. Her apartment is nothing but a semi-furnished reminder of the lonely life she once believed would shield her from pain.

"The heart wants, what the heart wants," he had once said. What she hadn't realized until much later was that theirs had already chosen.

There had been so many close calls and what-ifs leading up to their final coming together. Where she chose to reside and what she chose to reveal, she now realizes, wouldn't have made any difference. Losing him to her cowardice would have broken her just as much as losing him now.

After their last encounter with Jerry Tyson, he had asked her to stay; for the night, until they felt safe. And then she'd never really left and a year had passed.

Yesterday, she'd pulled one last box from her place and stashed it in the bedroom closet. It was the last thing remaining there that she holds dear, the last thing tying her to her old life. She wants to give it to him.

"Rick," she says, prying herself out from under his grasp and giggling when his hand brushes between her legs. "Control yourself for a moment and take the food and wine to the coffee table will ya? I'll be back in a second."

"Such a tease," he mutters, grabbing the platter. "You've got exactly thirty seconds or I'm coming in there and ravishing you; to hell with dinner."

She considers simply lying down on the bed and waiting; it's not like she wouldn't mind a good ravishing. But with the past month of holidays and parties, all the usual murder investigations and his book obligations, they have been seriously lacking in the romance department of late. Their sex life has been relegated to quickies and collapsing exhausted into bed. It hasn't been bad; it's just been… rushed.

It's why she planned this night. A chance to reconnect and take it slow on the only night that they will have the loft to themselves for the foreseeable future.

Alexis returns from her visit to Meredith tomorrow, and plans to spend the days leading up to Christmas with them at the loft. And then Martha, she can always be counted on to appear in a flurry of bangles and Chanel No.5 right as Rick and she find themselves in the heat of the moment. She suspects that it's some kind of motherly radar, a finely honed talent that Kate intends to use to her advantage when she and Rick have… _Whoa!_

The thought hits her like a speeding truck. She not only wants to have hypothetical babies with him, suddenly her mind flashes to twenty years from now. Visions of graying hair and wrinkled skin, younger versions of themselves, calling her 'Mom' and him, 'Dad'.

And amazingly, she doesn't panic.

She simply hums and smiles to herself, grabs the box and strolls into the living room; sits down at his side.

"What's this?" he says.

She runs her hands over the worn cardboard lid of the banker's box, its contents not disturbed in over a decade. Her hands fall to her sides, pads of her fingers burning along the dusty exterior. Her heart clenches. The last time she'd looked inside had been one of the worst days of her life.

"Kate?" His hand finds hers and he brings her knuckles to his lips. "Whatever it is, it can wait. You don't have to…"

"No," she says, her voice sharp, her reaction stronger than she'd imagined it would be. It can't wait though. They've both waited far too long already. "Just… give me a minute, okay?"

"'K," he says, his voice gravelly, his thumb stroking the soft skin along the back on her hand.

She takes a breath, steadies her nerves and begins.

"When I was a little girl, I was in love with all things Christmas."

She feels him squeeze her hand in encouragement.

Obviously grasping the gravity of the story she's about to tell him, he keeps silent, simply pulling her more snugly into his side.

"I couldn't wait for December to roll around; I'd make a calendar and start crossing off the days sometime around mid-September. I'd start playing my VHS tapes of Christmas movies in October and by the time December had rolled around, I was practically bubbling with my excitement and driving my parents completely insane with my incessant Carol singing and edits for my list to Santa."

He chuckles, and she bites her lip and looks up at him, slightly self-conscious of her former self, wondering about his reaction to this revelation about herself.

She'd once told him that she stopped believing in Santa Claus at three. In reality, she'd been a true believer until well past when any of her friends had given up on magic.

He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. "You are adorable."

"Anyway," she says, quickly brushing her lips to his and pressing on. "When I was ten, the bubble burst. People at school found out that I still believed in Santa; the teasing was merciless and my heart was broken. I came home from school livid. I yelled and I screamed and called my mother all kinds of names. She took it all like a champ though; she stroked my hair and held me as I sobbed, after the initial anger had worn off."

She feels his fingers tangle in her curls and for just a moment she is there again; weeping, head-down on the kitchen table in her parents' house. She sniffles and he offers her a tissue from the end table.

Wiping her nose, she continues, "I asked her why and she told me that until I asked, it wasn't her job to tell me. That it was her job to instill a sense of wonder and magic in me, that my belief brought her so much joy that even if she had wanted to, she never could have brought herself to tell me the truth. Not until it was time, not until I was ready. But now that I knew, and if I was ready to accept the truth, that it was time to start a new tradition."

"The box?" he questions.

"The box," she confirms.

"She made me promise that I wouldn't tell anybody else about the secret that I had learned. That I couldn't act like the children in my class and ridicule anyone who still believed. She told me that the spirit of Santa is tangible and enduring, that Santa himself is real; until the moment of disbelief and then not a moment longer. When my friends said he wasn't real, they were telling the truth because _they _had stopped believing, but that if I still truly believed in my heart that he existed, then indeed he did."

"I think you mother had a way with words, Kate," he says in awe. "That's lovely."

She smiles, "Yeah, she did... It was."

Silence stretches out as she gets lost in the memories.

"So what happened?" he nudges.

"She said to me, 'Katie, you have to make a choice. Neither of them is wrong and it's up to you. So tell me, what do _you_ think about this whole Santa business?'"

She chuckles, remembering how important she had felt when her mother had used her 'lawyer voice' and not the normal, softer voice of 'mom' that she was used to.

"'I think I'm ready to grow up,' I replied unsure."

"'Are you sure, sure?' she said. 'I'm sure,' I replied, this time with a confidence I still didn't fully feel but wanting so badly to be grown up."

"'Well in that case', Mom said, suddenly a woman on a mission, 'Let's get the hell out of here!'"

"I was shocked; my mom always made it a point not to curse in front of me. I'd of course, heard her cussing like a sailor at dad at times and overheard her with friends using all kinds of colorful words, but never had she mentioned even a 'hell' in my direction."

"You chose to grow up and it was her way of letting you know." Castle says.

"Yeah," she says, smiling at the memory. She had felt so very important that day. "So as I was saying, she whisks me out of the house and into the city and we arrive at a new store that had just opened up. The Christmas Cottage, it was called."

"Hey, I've been there," he says. "It's a fixture. We should go sometime."

"Yeah, we should," For the first time in over a decade, the thought doesn't terrify her. She grins and continues.

"Anyway, we go inside and it's a veritable Christmas wonderland. A year round homage to all things jolly and festive. Even from the outside Christmas trees sparkled through the display windows and drew me in like a moth to the flame. We spent maybe an hour in there, marveling at the themed trees and sipping on complementary cider. And then right as we are about to leave she crouches down in front of me and tells me to pick out anything I like. Any ornament no matter how big or small, how expensive or not. Whatever one I wanted, it was mine because we were starting a new tradition. Just the two of us."

"Which brings us to the box?"

"Yeah," Kate grins. "Brings us back to the box."

She opens the lid and Castle gasps. "Kate… there's so many."

There really are. She'd forgotten just how many trips they had taken to the Cottage. The baubles shimmer and twinkle in the flickering candle light; ornaments of every shape and size, each one bringing forth a new memory long since tampered down and pushed to the far recesses of her memories.

"She took me any time I'd had a bad day. It didn't have to be during the holidays. We'd go in March, or in the middle of June if she thought I might need a quick fix of magic. And you know… it worked. Every time."

"I think I would have loved your mother, Kate."

He would have. He would have loved her devilish wit and her fierce intelligence. He _really_ would have loved the way her mother could cut her down to size with just a single look. She had learned from the best.

"I know she would have loved you."

"You think?"

How can he doubt himself?

"I know it."

"How?"

This silly man, how could he not see? With his endless patience and gigantic heart; his courage and his steadfast refusal to let the world get him down. Everybody who had ever spent more than five minutes with the man was either in love with him or wanted to be him.

"Because _I_ love you."

"Kate, I…"

"Wait," she says, placing her fingers over his lips and halting his returning declaration. "There's a reason I told you all of that."

"Other than because you love me?"

He's waggling his eyebrows and looking all too smug. She loves that about him too. His ability to lighten the mood with his cocky demeanor but sincere eyes.

"O_nly _because I love you, Rick."

And here she goes, she going to dive in; pull a Houdini and topple headfirst over Niagara Falls in a barrel. She entrusts him to help her, once again, let the magic live in her heart.

"The last time I looked inside this box was the day of Mom's funeral. The tree was still up because I'd refused to let them take it down until after I left for Stanford. But people were going to be coming over to the house for the wake and the tree was by this point brown and droopy. We needed the room and it needed to go. Dad was in no position to do it, and so it was left to me."

"Oh, babe… I'm so sorry."

She shrugs. Someone had to do it.

And wait, did he just call her _babe? _She chooses to let it go. They aren't really the type for monikers, but out of his mouth she found it kind of endearing. She continues, warmth spreading where his arm drapes over her shoulder.

"So I packed them all away. One by one, taking them off the dead tree and vowing with every happy memory it brought forth, every painful reminder that she was gone, that I wasn't going to let myself believe again. Santa wasn't real; and the spirit of him wasn't real either. I had nothing left to believe in. Nothing I even wanted to believe in. If I didn't have happiness then I would never again lose it"

"Please tell me this story has a happy ending," he whispers, the tears evident in his husky voice.

She strokes her fingers along his thigh. "Ah, but it does."

"So what happened?"

She turns fully, so she's facing him head on and can clearly see into his eyes. She reaches up to cup his jaw in both her palms.

"You, Richard Castle. You happened. You made me believe again. And so now I'm giving you my memories."

"You're… you're what?"

"I trust you with them, Rick. I trust you with my heart."

She slides the box off her lap and slides it over onto his.

"I brought these over here because I don't ever plan on leaving." He lets out a deep shuddering breath. "Now, help me decorate our tree."

His jaw drops, his eyes filling with fresh tears. Still, he doesn't speak.

He gets up, and wordlessly walks towards the bedroom.

She sits on the couch and wonders what in the hell just happened.

Had she been wrong about him all this time? Did he not want her to move in? Had she moved too fast and scared him off with her declaration?

Oh God, what has she done?

* * *

**I think you all know what goes here by now. But if not... Deb is awesome and I crave reviews like an addict craves their next fix. **


	5. Chapter 5

Oh shit! He realizes that he left her hanging as he's halfway through his office. But god, she just bared her soul to him and offered him her memories for safekeeping; her memories of her mother, for Christ's sake. If ever there was a moment, then this was it. His body had leapt from the couch before his brain had even gotten a chance to register why.

Too late now, he thinks. He may as well continue to the bedroom and go get the ring. He's fairly sure he's already done some damage by walking away with not even a word of reassurance. What could be more reassuring than dropping down on one knee with the ring that she herself has unknowingly picked out?

He picks his pace up to a jog, smashing his hip on the door frame as he skids around the corner and into the bedroom. Books on the shelves wobble and he lets out a sharp curse.

"Castle?" he hears her call.

"Just a second," he grunts in reply.

Pain shoots down his thigh, a burning, tingly sensation. It's gonna leave a nasty welt. It doesn't matter though; he needs to get back out there. She can kiss his bruises better later. He grins, imaging her in that outfit, working her way up his legs with her talented mouth.

So he doesn't notice when, as he's reaching for the drawer, his foot connects with something solid. Something that shouldn't be in the middle of his bedroom floor, something that sends him arms flailing forward, his body, headfirst into the bedside table.

His toes curl under, his ankle twists painfully, and before he has the chance to find out what it is that he tripped over, his world goes black.

* * *

She heard a soft thump, the bitter curse of "Shit!" and a call of reassurance when she had called out his name. She had breathed a sigh of relief.

He may have hurt and confused her with his little disappearing act a second ago but she wishes him no_ real_ harm. He had annoyed her more than anything. She smiles a little, hearing his continued curses. She's not opposed to a little bit of pain. Not after he left her hanging.

She still has no idea why he'd rushed off; she sits on the couch twisting the hem of her dress between her fingers, trying to rationalize it in her mind. Surely offering him her memories and telling him how she felt wasn't the cause of his disappearing act, was it?

She had had a moment of doubt, more about herself and the deep issues that still challenge her than anything else; she doesn't really believe that he would flee. If it were up to him, she thinks that they might already have been married; possibly she might have been sporting a rounded belly by now.

She shakes her head to clear her mind, bring herself back to the present. It sounded like he took a hit from the bookshelf in his rush to do whatever it is that he's up to. Whatever is was that had him running away from her confession in a flurry of unshed tears and shock.

She's absentmindedly running a palm over her flat stomach, imagining the possibilities, when she hears a sickening thud. That wasn't a glancing blow; that was wood, meeting flesh and bone. She waits for the expected curse.

"Castle?" she calls.

There's nothing, not even a peep of profanity. Her stomach drops and then lurches into her throat. She jumps up off the couch, panic bubbling in her veins. Richard Castle doesn't often curse but when he does it is colorful and it is loud; shouts of joy in the midst of lovemaking, or pain and the attempt to ease it. That crash sounded painful. And yet he hasn't cursed.

She runs around the corner of his office and into the bedroom. She finds him slumped on the floor, his left foot twisted awkwardly and resting beside one of her boots.

"Rick!"

Shit! She gently rolls him over, careful to support his neck and watch his leg. A gash on his forehead and a trail of blood trickling down his jaw quickly apprise her of what had happened. Her eyes flit to the bedside table, and she swallows down the bile when she sees the blood and what is quite possibly, a hunk of skin hanging off the sharp corner.

She checks his pulse and breathes out a sigh of relief; it's steady and strong. He's already beginning to come around as she lifts her fingers from his neck. She pushes the hair back from his brow and softly calls his name, asks him to wake up now.

"Come on, Rick. Wake up for me okay?"

"Mmm," he slurs.

"Castle, come on. Open your eyes."

"Clarice?"

His voice is garbled, sluggish and sleepy. Still, the name was clear enough. Who the hell is Clarice?

"Come on, wake up for me."

"No… Don't wanna play any games."

Games? What kinds of games? But then his eyelashes flutter and she forgets all about his semi-conscious ramblings because she's staring into that familiar pool of blue and she just feels so _relieved._

"Oh, thank God. You're awake."

"Kate?"

He attempts to sit up, wincing in pain and reaching to his brow. He pulls his hands back in shock when he reaches the slick of blood on his forehead.

"What happened?"

She ducks her head, hangdog and feeling horribly guilty. "You tripped over my boot, I think."

"Oh. Yeah… I remember now."

He sounds dejected, disappointed even, and the guilt piles ever higher on Kate's shoulders.

She hadn't specifically placed the boots there to get a rise out of him; although she has done such things in the past, a part of the slightly sick game they play, seeing who will crack first, who will break and throw the other up against the nearest piece of solid furniture.

But she also hadn't moved them when she'd noticed them laying there on the floor, after they'd recovered from their frenzied roll in the hay earlier in the evening.

"I'm sorry, Castle. It was my fault. I might have accidentally left them there on purpose…"

He chuckles and the vice of guilt around her heart releases.

"Hey, no sweat, Kate. I might have accidentally used half your bottle of shower-gel while shaving earlier," he retorts, the familiar sly grin that she loves so much overtaking his pained expression from earlier.

Yeah, he's gonna be just fine.

"Ass! That stuff costs a fortune."

"This shouldn't come as a surprise to you at this point, Kate, but I'm loaded." He waves his arms around, gesturing at their surroundings. "I'll buy you another bottle."

"I think I'd prefer other ways of making you pay," she replies, biting her lip the way she knows drives him wild. "But first…" She grabs his hand and helps him to rise, checking for any signs of lingering damage from the fall. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He groans and hops a little as his weight shifts to his ankle, but by the time she's led him into the bathroom, he's walking normally again. She thanks God for small blessings. A whiny, broken-ankled Castle is the last thing she'd want for Christmas.

If last summer's broken pinky incident was anything to go by, she is loath to think of dealing with him unable to walk.

The four week, forced hiatus from writing had been enough to drive her mad. It had led him to waking her up at all hours of the night to bounce stories off of her, to get her to write them down for him. It hadn't even been his dominant hand!

She's fairly certain it had been payback for the way in which it had happened. But really, how was she to know he was _deathly_ afraid of rats? Sure, he'd squealed about the rat on his shoulder that one time, but it hadn't been _her _fault that he'd stumbled backwards out of his office, tripped, and landed badly. Who knew the man would be so effected by ninety-nine stuffed rodents? She'd quickly removed the hundredth from under his pillow after returning from the emergency room.

A broken foot and a pause in him playing her shadow might turn her homicidal, she thinks. Partly because of the whining she'd have to endure, the martyring and ploys for attention; but mainly, she admits to herself, because she'd miss him.

She rummages through his cabinets and finds the first aid kit, instructs him to hop up on the counter so she can get a good look at his injury. He complies, a big dopey grin on his face.

"What's so amusing?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, but his face is anything but innocent.

"Castle," she warns, drenching a gauze pad in rubbing alcohol, dabbing it onto one of his pecks and making him gasp as the cold liquid evaporates and leaves his nipple hardened and puckered.

"It's just…" he says, wincing as she goes about cleaning his forehead and wiping off the now congealed blood. "It seems all my Christmases have come at once."

She raises a brow, not following.

"Naughty nurse _and _sexy Santa," he grins, leaning to one side so she can get a good look at herself in the mirror.

She groans, looking at her reflection; a vision in red and white, holding a Band-Aid. She'd all but forgotten what she was wearing sometime after sitting on the couch and baring her soul to him.

His head is cleaned up now and the wound doesn't look nearly so bad. She always forgets how badly facial wounds bleed until after the fact. She applies the strip of plastic and gently pats it down to keep it affixed to his skull.

"All better," she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the Band-Aid. "Merry Christmases, Castle."

"Merry Christmas, Kate," he huskily replies.

"You feel up to decorating the tree?" she asks, hoping to salvage what's left of the night.

His eyes mist over again, that shocked expression she'd seen before the 'boot incident' returning.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah… I'd like that. Just give me a minute to freshen up in here, okay?"

"Sure," she replies, assuming he needs to take care of business. "Just… don't take too long."

She wants to be sure he's okay. Something about his countenance leads her to believe there's more on his mind than just dirty fantasies and a throbbing head-wound.

"And remember, Castle." She winks over her shoulder as she leaves the bathroom. "More than two shakes and it's playing with yourself."

"Cute," he retorts.

She's all the way back to the sofa when she remembers something.

"Hey Castle," she calls. "Who's Clarice?"

* * *

**Oh, come on! You didn't think I was gonna make it that easy did you? Feel free to lambaste me via review. :D**

**My beta for this chapter, Deb, is wise. And polite!**


	6. Chapter 6

"Castle," he hears her call. "Who's Clarice?"

He groans. Apparently his semi-conscious brain had him voicing his musings out loud. She'll give him no end of grief if she learns where his mind was wandering while she pleaded with him to wake up. Perhaps, if he pretends he hasn't heard her, she will let the topic drop.

He quickly grabs the ring from the bedside table, making sure to tread carefully and avoid any further damage to his throbbing cranium.

He scans the room, looking for something to use as cover for his covert mission. Finding nothing, he opts instead for donning his robe and slipping the little brown box into one of the roomy pockets. He fingers the soft leather as he walks through his office and back into the living room, using the padded outer shell as something of a makeshift stress-ball. He's never been this nervous before.

He cringes a little that there has even _been _a before; but on the upside it makes him doubly sure of what he's about to do. He draws his hand out of his pocket and relaxes his fingers, smiling as he spies her.

She rises as he enters, the sight of her long legs and barely concealed breasts giving him a moment of pause.

"You... you changed..." he stutters.

"No," she smirks, "Just... disrobed. You like?"

His head bobs up and down vigorously, like there would be a question. She's semi-naked; of course he likes. He likes _very_ much. His mouth is having a little trouble forming the words though.

The teddy is made of satin, a deep red that he desperately wants to trail his fingers over. A black bow is nestled between her breasts, black leather, insinuating all kinds of dirty things about what she plans on doing with him.

"So... the tree?" she questions.

Right, the tree. They were going to decorate her. Although how she expects him to concentrate on the tree while she sports a skirt that could very well be confused for a shirt, he cannot imagine. Is this some kind of test? Penance for deeds unknowingly committed against her?

"Yeah, I'd... I'd like that."

She grins and strolls over to the tree, he's fairly sure she's exaggerating the sway of her hips entirely for his benefit. Nobody, not even Kate, could be _that _unintentionally erotic. If her plan is to drive him mad, she's doing a fine job. Has she no mercy? He has a head injury for Christ's sake!

The ring box burns a two-carat, flawless, diamond sized hole in his pocket and he trips a little over his own feet on the way over to the tree. He pauses and considers just dropping to his knees behind her, waiting until she turns around to notice. It wouldn't be the smoothest of proposals, but at the rate he's going, it might be the safest.

She turns around when she reaches the tree though, a sparkle of mischief and a deeper look, one of pure adoration on her face and he nixes that plan. It's too easy, and she deserves better.

"You coming, Castle?"

"I'm injured here, woman. By your own hand, I might note. Hold your horses, would ya?"

She rolls her eyes, as expected, and bends over to pick up an ornament from the box.

He gulps and licks his lips, because the view he just beheld was _not_ expected. Tanned legs, rounded ass cheeks, par for the course with her... but then... pink flesh. He swallows at the sight and licks his lips in an attempt to relieve his suddenly dry mouth.

"Actually," she says, turning to face him, raising a brow and grinning wickedly, "It was my boots."

He's on her in a flash and she squeals at the sudden contact as he almost topples them both into the tree. Wrapping his arms around her waist and growling in her ear, he asks, "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Just checking," she purrs.

"Checking?" he says, tracing his tongue around the shell of her ear, softly biting into the cartilage.

"Mm," she replies, letting her fingers trail up his thigh, "That I still have your full..." She cups him, squeezes gently, and he gasps. "And undivided..." She strokes the length of him just once and then releases him. "Attention."

He stands dazed, overcome with lust and painfully aroused; she slips out of his grasp and hangs the ornament on a nearby branch, as though not at all fazed by his condition. She's pure evil, he's sure of it now. She continues with her game of bending over and picking up tree trimmings and he steadfastly tries to ignore her; refusing to fall prey to her yet again. It's becoming a habit tonight and he thinks it's time he gained the upper hand.

He'd like nothing better than to bend her over, right here by the tree and the window, and have his way with her; but he's curious too. What is she checking for? And why on earth wouldn't she have his attention? On the best of days, he has a hard time thinking about anything but her.

"Why on earth wouldn't you have my attention?" His eyes rake over her body, appreciating the way the satin clings to her every curve.

She smirks and hands him a bauble to hang. "Who's Clarice, Castle?"

He feels the color rise to his cheeks; it seems he's not getting out of that conversation after all.

"Alright fine," he says. "But you have to promise you're not going to laugh."

She bites on her lips, trying to smother a grin. Yeah. She's going to laugh all right.

"The tree…" he says, pointing to the half-decorated fir.

She schools her features, attempts her best solemn face. It resembles something of a pained grimace.

"Oh fine," he huffs. "You can laugh; just try not to bruise my already battered ego."

She smiles, softly then, and squeezes his arm, urging him to tell his story. "There has to be more to it than that, I would have imagined you'd name her Holly or…" she rolls her eyes. "Carol."

He chuckles, because she's right. There have been a few 'Holly's over the years and Alexis had gone with Carol once.

"When I was a kid," he says, "we didn't have much."

She nods, she knows this already, has heard how Martha had struggled to raise a son and manage a career on her own.

"But Mother, she loved Christmas, and of all the times of year that we had to go without something, she didn't want it to be that one. So at Christmas time, starting around October, she'd take on extra jobs. Waitressing and cleaning theaters, secretarial work; menial jobs that in no way would help her career but would be sure to add a little extra padding to her bank account so she could buy me whatever it was that I'd been asking for. Anyway, while she would go off to these jobs, I was left with a nanny who wanted nothing to do with me. I'd spend my time watching cartoons and pretending I didn't care."

Just then, the oven dings and she stops him with a nod of her head towards the kitchen.

"Come on; finish this tale in the kitchen. I made you a surprise."

Suddenly the smell of cloves and ginger that he'd barely registered when she'd descended the stairs earlier, makes sense.

"You made cookies?"

"I did," she says.

How on earth did she find the time? He must have really zoned out in the shower, or the cookie batter was pre-prepared. Either way…

"Best girlfriend ever!"

"I know," she grins, pulling on an oven mitt and pulling the baking sheet out of the oven. "Doesn't mean you are getting out of your story though. Continue."

"Okay so, I might not have been the most ruggedly handsome guy back then."

Kate raises an eyebrow, feigning disbelief.

"By the time I was eleven, I was a mess of skinny legs, bad skin and worse teeth. The nannies had been relieved of their duties by then; I had assured her I was old enough to take care of myself and while her career had begun to take off, she was still struggling enough with money to take it at face value and as a blessing."

"Does this story have a happy ending?" she asks while placing the cookies onto a plate.

"That's my line," he chides, remembering their earlier conversation.

She grins, picking up the plate and walking to the living room. She puts the plate on the coffee table and he follows, sinking down to the plush, white rug, forgoing the couch for easier access to the cookies. He reaches for one and drops it with a yelp when his fingers are scalded.

She reaches for his hand, taking the burned pads of his fingers to her lips, laying light kisses at the tips. "Cookies later, story first," she whispers into his hand.

"Okay, so it had been a particularly bad day for young Rick Rodgers."

She squeezes his hand and leans into his side; he fidgets with the long fibers of the shag rug.

"I'd been teased mercilessly at school, the day had been bitterly cold and to make matters worse, I'd missed the bus. By the time I made it back to our apartment, it was nearing sunset. It was two weeks before Christmas and I was over it. I was done with magic and joy and all the other clichés that the advertisements on televisions would have you believe the season was made up of."

"So what changed," she asks with a tone of disbelief in her voice. "You're the very picture of Christmas cheer these days."

"Ever the optimist, I decided that I was going to make my own cheer. Hot chocolate and cookies, a surprise for Mother when she got home. It seemed like a good idea, everything was pre-packaged and I thought that maybe if I just tried a little harder, the spirit of the season would reveal itself to me. So I made the hot-chocolate with no problems and placed the cookies into the oven. The local TV station was running a Christmas movie marathon that night, so I turned on the television and settled in to watch while the cookies baked. The walk must have tired me out more than I'd thought though, because the next thing I knew, the apartment was thick with smoke and I was being dragged by my ear to the kitchen by a crazy redhead wearing a singed elf costume."

"Martha, I take it?"

"Mhmm. And she was livid. Rightfully so, probably."

"It wasn't your fault, Castle."

"No. But it can't have helped her already bad day. Did I forget to mention she was wearing an elf costume?"

He grins, remembering his poor mother, dressed in green Lycra and adorned with a fluffy garland and shiny bells, the white fur, blackened around the edges with smoke damage.

"So she yelled, asked what in the hell I was thinking, huffed and puffed and angrily cleaned up the mess while I stood there in something of a daze. When she was done, she wordlessly walked to the sofa and slumped heavily down into the cushions, looking as broken as I'd ever seen her. It wasn't the first time that I'd made a mess or caused damage, but I just knew that something about this time was different."

"I slumped down next to her and began to sob. I choked out all that had happened that day, the teasing and missing the bus, trying to salvage the day with hot chocolate and cookies for her. And then she began to sob as well."

"'Oh, kiddo,' she said, 'I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to have everything.' It turns out that she'd been saving for the first of my long string of private schools; that her current getup of hideous Christmas cheer was for the job that would finally leave her with enough stashed away to send me to Browning. The new oven and paint that would be needed to salvage the kitchen had just ruined all her plans."

"So we sat on the couch and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer began to play. It was quiet, and I think she thought I'd fallen asleep. Rudolph had been teased by all the other deer and it was at the part where Clarice tries to cheer up Rudolph with the song, 'There's Always Tomorrow'."

"She sang along with it, her voice soft and pretty and not at all her usual over the top self. It was pure heart and full of feeling."

He sighs, remembering how loved he had felt in that moment, as his mother's warm hands had stroked through his hair.

"And as the song ended, she whispered into my hair, 'don't worry darling, you'll find your Clarice someday.' She rose then and covered me with a blanket; I kept on pretending to be asleep. I heard her on the phone later, arranging for another two weeks of elf work so that she could cover the damages."

"She really loves you."

"Yeah, she does," he agrees. His mother might not be the best of role models and certainly wasn't there every time he had needed her, but she had done her best and she had loved him fiercely. "Sometimes I wish I could have a do-over. Or that I could go back in time and tell my younger self to be a little more grateful. I wasn't the easiest of kids to live with, I gave her hell."

"There's always tomorrow, for dreams to come true…" Kate begins to sing.

"You know it?" he questions with bright eyes.

"Know it? It was my favorite part. You know I'm a sucker for unresolved feelings of love."

He snorts; four years waiting on her was proof enough of that. "Don't I ever."

"So you named the tree after a Christmas doe?"

"I named the tree after you," he grins, tapping her on the nose.

"I don't know whether I should be insulted or proud."

Kate looks over toward the tree, examining the mangy looking bush.

"She might be scarred, Kate, but she's beautiful and strong. She's resilient, like you. And my mother was right. I finally found her."

"You're gonna make me cry," she whispers.

"I'd rather make you moan," he says, easing her down onto the rug.

He removes his robe carefully, placing it to the side with an inner groan at another missed opportunity.

But it can wait. Kate is here and she is ready; more importantly she isn't going anywhere. If it takes him until Christmas Eve and simply placing the box under the tree, it won't matter. She's his, and his dreams will come true.

Eventually.

After all, tomorrow is not far away.

* * *

**One, maybe two more chapters to go. **

**Thank you all for the continued support. Who knew a little bit of Xmas fluff would get such a response. You all rock my socks! Even if I am awful about replying to reviews, they make my day. Even the anons who drive me a little bit mad when they ask questions and kill my ability to actually answer by not signing in. ;)**

**Deb, you have a filthy mind and I love it. **

**If you are interested in the Rudolph scene: youtube dot com /CUgMaL89Lqc**

**I don't know why, but that scene was in my head from the very beginning. How very random of my brain.**


	7. Chapter 7

He presses her to the floor smoothly, guiding her head to the soft shag carpeting and covering her with his body, catching her impatient moan with his mouth.

"Told you," he grins into her lips.

"Told me what?" Kate huffs, pulling away and eyeing him with annoyance.

He presses his knees into her sides and slides his body along hers, tangling his hands in her hair.

"That I'd make you moan."

"Cocky," she smirks, cupping him firmly in her palm. His hands fumble at the hem of her skirt and she smiles as she pushes them away. "Eager too," she grins.

"Let me," she says, as she slides her hands under his waistband and frees him from his pajama bottoms. He raises his hips and she uses her toes to push them past his ankles, splaying her legs in the process. He sinks back down onto her, so their bodies are aligned, his overheated skin against the cool satin of her outfit.

His erection presses against her center and as he leans in to taste the soft skin of her earlobe, she raises her hips to meet him, a rush of slick warmth coating his length and leaving him gasping for air. He'd momentarily forgotten that she was bare beneath the teddy.

"Kate," he groans.

He feels her smile against his neck. She covers his skin in kisses, hands wandering down his spine, nails dragging, leaving an electric tingle in their wake. His hips rock, beyond his control, creating an exquisite friction between them.

"Castle, wait," she says as her hips rise, his tip hovering agonizingly close to her core.

His head slumps down, disappointment practically oozing from his pores. He'd been so very close.

"I wanna be on top," she whispers into his ear, her voice dripping with sex, almost a purr.

He doesn't need to be asked twice. Quickly, he rolls over and onto the rug, pulling her along with him until she straddles his thighs; the soft fibers tickle the backs of his knees and her wet arousal surrounds his shaft. He squirms in response and she giggles at the contact.

It never ceases to amaze him, the change in her disposition when she leaves the rigid confines of the 12th. The façade of Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, falls away, leaving this beautiful, carefree, and downright _jolly _version of herself, for him to study and enjoy. He snorts, considering her outfit, but nevertheless, it's this softer side of Kate that he loves the most.

Her bad-ass, take no prisoners, cop persona may have drawn him in initially but it was the potential for seeing the woman beneath the outer layer that kept him coming back for more all these years. Now that she so freely gives herself to him, he can't help but just be so very thankful; for his luck, and her courage. Getting to this point hadn't always been so easy.

"Stay still," she chides gently.

Her hands glide over his skin as he lays bare; and he realizes as the satin falls back down around her hips that she's still dressed. He thinks that he might need to remedy that, but she stills his hands again with a small shake of her head and a devilish leer.

She slithers further down his thighs, leaving his cock to bob unrestricted; she grins, all white teeth and pink tongue as she takes him into her hand.

"You're awful quiet," she says, rubbing her thumb over his tip and coating him in his own fluid.

He watches her as she watches him, as she licks her lips, as though already preparing to savor his taste. The anticipation alone might kill him.

"Just trying to keep breathing here, Kate," he grunts as she again swirls her thumb around his tip, squeezing and letting her fingers trail along his shaft.

"In and out Rick," she says as she rubs him in long, slow strokes.

He rolls his eyes, partly because, while it might seem like a simple exercise to her, he's having a hard time concentrating on such mundane tasks as breathing when there's so many more fulfilling sensations to be focused on. The tightening in his groin, and the warm heavy weight in his stomach; the flutter of his heart and the rush of endorphins to his head, all make breathing a secondary consideration.

Also, he wonders if that pun was intentional. The glint in her eyes suggests that he might be rubbing off on her.

He groans inwardly at his own bad pun. If anyone's doing any rubbing, it's most definitely her.

"Hop on," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "I'll show you in and out."

She rolls her eyes at him and murmurs "Patience," before dipping her head and taking him into her mouth.

"You're amazing," he chokes out as she flattens her tongue and blazes a fiery trail down to his base, back up until he is buried once more inside her mouth.

She looks up at him then; cheeks hollowed and eye wide, the very picture of sex on a stick. She rolls her eyes and grins around his shaft and his head drops back against the floor, flashes of white light marring his vision.

"Kate, please," he begs.

He wants to last. Hell, he'd be happy to make it to the final show, and if she continues with her merciless mouth, it'll be over before it's begun.

She takes pity on him, releases him from the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. The reprieve is only momentary though, because once again she straddles him, grinding her hips into his own and rubbing herself against his length.

He thumbs her clit and she lets out a breathy moan; he slides along her silken folds and inhales, relishing the scent of her dripping arousal and their mutual excitement.

He's grinning like an imbecile; he can feel it in his aching cheeks and jaw but he is powerless to control the wide and happy smile. She has reduced him to single syllables and noises not exclusively human; grunts, feral rumbles and uncontrolled panting.

His left hand travels to her ass, kneading and pawing at her flesh, his fingers aching to find purchase and pull her onto him. She resists and he contents himself instead by letting his fingers wander forward, quickly sliding two inside of her; she lets out a gasp when he buries them deep and curls his knuckles.

"My god," he breathes, amazed at the wetness he finds as she rocks against him. She falls forward and moans into his mouth, spreading her legs further and aiding him in his quest to explore her soaked center.

He slides his right hand under the teddy, finding smooth skin along her abdomen and soft curves at his fingertips. The pads of his fingers discover the slight ridges of her ribs and he smiles, pleased that in the last few years she has regained some of the weight that she had shed after her shooting.

She's healthy now, fuller, both in her figure and her mindset. As she had regained the much needed pounds, he had shed a few of his own, both of them wanting to be at their best for the other.

The insatiable urge to make love might have played a part, he thinks. It's the most exercise he's gotten in years and she is always ravenous after a good round of lovemaking. They are so very good for each other; they strike a balance he once thought impossible to achieve.

He slides his hand higher and finds her breasts. Cupping them, he tests their weight, lets his thumb brush lightly over her nipples. Once, twice, until they pucker into tight pebbles. It's then that he rolls one between his thumb and pointer finger, eliciting a gasp of surprise.

"Let me hear you," he says. She gasps again, jaw tight and her hands twisting in his hair as she thrusts against him. "Let go," he says.

"Rick," she cries softly against his lips.

He wants more, wants to hear her scream as she falls apart above him. He wants to give her this and he wants to watch as she falls apart around him. He slips another finger inside, murmuring her name and it's then that she finally releases, a cacophony of cries and obscenities spewing from her lips.

"No more," she implores, "Please, I want you inside me."

He reaches between them and guides himself inside, sighing with relief as he slides home.

"This," he says, gesturing to the now wrinkled teddy, "has to come off."

"You don't like your present?" she smirks, clenching around him and sending a fresh wave of heat throughout his body. She's regained some of her control and the teasing smile returns, especially sexy now that she's flushed and dewy from her recent orgasm.

"You're the gift," he says and she smiles. "But I'd be very grateful if you'd unwrap it now."

He'd do it himself but she has him pinned to the floor, fingers tangled in his, her body weight resting on his palms.

She winks, shrugs and sits up, changing the angle and burying him deeper inside of her. She smirks when his eyes widen in surprise.

"Fuck," he groans.

"Yeah… soon," she agrees, swiftly lifting the teddy over her head and discarding it on the floor, finally revealing herself to him.

She starts out slow, rocking her hips gently and letting her fingers play in the soft hairs on his chest. He relaxes into the motion, enjoying watching her as she undulates above him. Her skin glows in the candlelight, ripples of light and shadow playing against the long lines and round curves of her body. Her hair falls in soft curls, framing her face, a mask of bliss as she loses herself in the moment.

"Love you," she breathes. "So much. Always."

He gives her control, lets her lead as he tenderly watches her revel in their joined bodies. Nothing compares to this, not wild rides in elevators or slow explorations on lazy mornings, not even that first frenzied joining when he had thought all his dreams were coming true. Because this is new; he feels like tonight, the last of both their walls fell down.

As she leans down to place a soft, slow kiss to his lips, he makes a decision.

As she whispers her love into his ear and playfully bites down on his collarbone, his arm reaches over to the pile of terry-cloth at his side, fingers deftly searching within its folds. Devoid of a moment's doubt, he opens the box and slides the ring onto his pinky.

As she rises and calls his name, he takes her hand in his own and links their fingers.

He smiles at her with a goofy grin and she rolls her eyes. It isn't perfect; they'll have to make up a story for the general public.

But it's sweet, and it's real, and it's them.

As she maintains eye contact, he pulls her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers. One by one until he reaches her ring finger.

Gently, he loosens her curled digit and quietly, he whispers, "I love you Kate; more than life. Always."

She eyes him as he toys with her ring finger; he shifts his gaze to his other hand, curled around her wrist, the diamond sparkling in the warm light. Her eyes follow, widening in surprise as comprehension sets in.

And then she laughs, loud and exhilarated, and crushes her mouth to his.

"You are so _not_ proposing right now," she chuckles into his lips, tightening her muscles around him.

"Yeah, I kinda think I am," he replies, pushing deeply into her to drive his point home.

She cries out his name, her arms snaking around his neck and her fingers desperately clawing at the base of his scalp, her nails dragging through his hair.

"Not how I imagined it," she grunts, as he increased the pace and thrusts into her.

"Just… answer the damn question," he grits out as he feels himself beginning to unravel.

"You… never… actually asked."

"Fuck... Kate," he calls as his excitement bubbles up. "I can't," he says, as it spills over and he loses himself in a swirl of exquisite sensation.

"Yes," she cries. "Yes, yes, yes."

Breathless and with a hammering heart, head spinning, Castle rolls them until he covers her boneless body with his own. He drops his weight onto her, covers her mouth with his own and drops a gentle kiss onto her parted lips.

"Do you just agree to marry me, Kate?"

Lazily, her eyes blink open, the haze of ecstasy slowly receding, a look of pure love taking its place.

"Worst proposal ever, Castle." His stomach drops, every muscle in his body tensing, his lungs burning with the need for oxygen. "But yes, yes I'll marry you."

And just like that he can breathe again.

* * *

**Well... that's not even close to how I imagined it would go when I set out to write this and I feel a little sick to my stomach posting it. But it's where they wanted to go, so that's what I'm gonna do.**

**Thanks to Avi, for providing the porn for ladies. To Deb, for telling it to me straight and not letting me leave it hanging.**

**My love and gratitude to those reading and reviewing. I don't often get to replying to every one but know that you give me the confidence to keep going.**


	8. Chapter 8: Epilogue

The morning after Castle's impromptu proposal was spent lounging in bed. Martha had called and informed them that she was staying longer with her friend in the Hamptons and that she'd be back for Christmas Day, Alexis wasn't due into town until late night Christmas Eve. Kate was fairly sure the 'friend' that Martha was being entertained by was in fact the handsome widow that had begun making more than a few appearances at Martha's latest production. He was strikingly handsome and filthy rich, a veritable bull's-eye on Martha's 'greydar'.

Kate was happy for her but somewhat disappointed that she wouldn't have anyone to share the news with. Over the past year, Martha had become almost as important to Kate as Castle had, the older woman taking Kate under her wing and showing her the ropes of handling the press and, more importantly, her son.

With Alexis still out of town and Lanie off visiting relatives for the holidays, Kate was saddened to realize she had no one to squeal with about the ring adorning her finger.

"What's the matter," Castle says, entering the room with a plate laden with fruit and two steaming cups of coffee.

Kate smiles and shrugs, quietly pleased with his ability to read her, both her need for coffee and the somewhat melancholy mood she'd been lost in. It's not that she's unhappy, quite the opposite, she's practically buzzing with excited energy. It's that she has no one to share it with; it's that she doesn't have her mother.

He sets the tray on the side-table and bounds onto the bed and into her lap, his head landing on her thighs and his antics instantly lifting her mood. She grins and cards her fingers through his hair; he laces his fingers through hers and fiddles with the newly acquired ring.

"You miss her," he says.

They both know the 'her' he is referring to. Her hand stills in his hair as he waits patiently for her to reveal what's bothering her.

"Every day," she sighs, "But more…"

"On the big occasions," he finishes for her.

"Yeah," she says. "I just wish… I wish you could have known her, you know?"

"I already do," he says.

She wonders what he means by that. Sure, she's told him a story here and there and shown him pictures, but how could he really know her.

"Castle…"

He cuts off her protests with a light squeeze to her wrist.

"I know she was loyal, smart and brave, that she fought for the little guy. I know she was caring and beautiful, that she loved deeply and worked hard. That she had a softer, more playful side when the occasion called for it and that she had a sharp tongue and a filthy mind."

Kate grins, her mother really had had a filthy mind. Some of Kate's best one-liners were stolen directly from her mother's droll catalogue of wit.

"I also know that she passed all of that onto you. I may not have met her Kate, but every moment I spend with you, and every story you tell, I learn a little more not only about you, but about her too. About the woman who raised the woman I love. I know I would have loved her because I am so in love with you."

God, this man. Rendered speechless by red satin, wordless when trying to propose, and yet… when it counts, when the pain of never getting to share her mom with him hits home, he manages to say just the right ones.

"She was a fan of yours you know?"

Perhaps it's time she shared something else. Something that at first she held back for fear of it being used against her, later because of embarrassment, and even later still because she knew there'd be gloating involved. Lots of gloating. It's lucky for him that she's in love with him.

"She read my books?"

There's no mistaking the instant tenor of glee in his voice, and the hopeful expression of wonder in his eyes as he waits for her to share something new.

"Cover to cover, until the pages thinned and the spines cracked. She was a regular Rick Castle groupie."

And she was. It wouldn't have surprised Kate back then if her mother had come home from a book signing with her chest signed. She and her Dad had constantly ribbed her that the only reason she read the books was for the attractive author on the back covers.

The thought makes her shudder a little, considering that she is laying naked below the very man she is speaking of.

"That is so cool! Why have I not heard of this before? Oh my god, did she ever come to a signing? Did she bring _you_?"

Kate is not touching that last one with a ten foot pole. She had been to a signing with her mother once. She'd been sixteen and not at all amused by the hour-long detour on the way to the museum. She'd hidden in the science section, thumbing through tomes about the universe while her mother had waited in line.

"_Possibly,_ it might have been a thing between us."

"A thing?"

"I _might_ have given her a hard time about reading your books."

"Katherine Beckett, don't you try and deny that you weren't a fan before we met."

"No, I won't deny that, not anymore, but that didn't come 'til much later. In high school, I was all about Russian lit and Shakespeare, giant books that hurt your head to read and your wrists to hold. I saw little value in what I _may_ have called… pulp fiction." She grins down at him, pokes out her tongue at his look of annoyance and continues. "I gave her hell when I'd spy your cheesy mug smiling at me from the coffee table or beside her bed. That cocky picture on the back cover did little to sway me to read them."

He sputters a little, muttering about pulp fiction and the value of light reading, about being ruggedly handsome. She stills him with a hand to his heart, soothes him with light, back and forth strokes.

"Calm down, writer-boy, I can admit that I was wrong."

"Well, duh!" he grumbles, poking her playfully in the thigh. She chuckles and lets silence overtake them for a moment, remembering the kick she'd get out of teasing her mom with her dad. How insane is it, she thinks, that she's now engaged to the guy?

"So what changed?" he says seriously.

"She'd constantly try to get me to read them, offer up arguments as to why you were so good and what I was missing out on. She told me how you offered her hope when cases got her down, how your books made her believe in justice when the system was failing to provide it. It wasn't until after…"

A tear slips off her chin and lands wish a small splash on his eyebrow; she hadn't realized she'd begun to cry.

"Hey," he says, sitting up and joining her at the headboard of the bed. "You don't have to."

She shakes her head and leans into his shoulder; he uses his thumb to brush away the tracks of her tears.

She takes a few calming breaths and continues, feeling lighter with him at her side. "No, I want to." He squeezes her hand and nudges her to go on.

"It was after… a few weeks after the funeral, the cops had all but given up by this time and Dad had already begun to drink. I hauled him up off the couch and took him to bed, lay down next to him, half-afraid he'd vomit in his sleep and drown; half-afraid whoever had killed her would come for him next."

"Oh Kate…" His fingers trace soothing circles on her hip.

"So I was lying there, watching the clock as the minutes ticked by, and I just felt… numb I guess. My gaze shifted to a book, still lying open, spine cracked and flattened on the night stand. It was Storm Warning; I read the synopsis and almost threw up. A New York attorney murdered in cold blood? I mean really, that's the last one she chose to read? I threw it down as though the pages had burned my fingers and silently cried into the pillow, cursing the universe for being so cruel. But then I heard her voice in my head, 'Katie, he gives me hope. He finds justice when others can't.' And so I started reading and I couldn't put it down. I guess… I guess I've just never stopped."

"It helped?" he asks and he sounds so unsure. Almost guilty, as though his book might have hurt her more. He still doesn't understand.

"You gave me hope in my darkest of days Castle, from the very beginning. And what I'm trying to say is, you still give me hope, you make me believe in the future. I thank god every day that I picked up that book, that I met you."

"I love you," he breathes into her ear, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck.

"Plus, you know…" she says, wanting to lighten the mood. She rolls until she is over him, sits up and straddles his lap. She traces his jaw with her thumb and offers him a cocky grin. "I've kind of gotten used to that mug. I might even call it ruggedly handsome."

He kisses her then, slowly, lazily and with so much tenderness. She closes her eyes and relaxes into his chest, planning on wasting away the day with his mouth. Apparently he has other plans though.

"Get up!" he says suddenly.

She eyes him with suspicion, a day spent lounging in bed and making love seems like a perfectly fine plan to her. Surely whatever he has in mind can wait. She clenches her thighs around his hips and leans down to take his mouth again.

"Come on! Get up!" he repeats and she doesn't know if she wants to kiss him or kill him for the childlike exuberance that is beginning to vibrate from under her; he's all jiggly legs and bright, shiny eyes.

"But I'm naked, Castle."

That calms him for a moment and she thinks she might have gained back his full attention.

"Yes, yes you are," he says appreciatively, letting his eyes roam her body. "Still, you need to get up. Sexy times will have to wait, we're going out."

She groans, it's obvious that whatever bee has gotten into his bonnet, he won't be denied. She may as well get up like he keeps insisting. The sooner this mission of his is completed, the sooner they can get back to being naked.

She rolls off of him and makes her way to the closet; he pushes in behind her and quickly grabs a change of clothes. By the time she is dressed he is hastily thrusting a travel mug of coffee into her hands and pushing her toward the front door. Whatever this is, it better be good, she thinks.

He hurries her down to the sidewalk of his building and hails a cab, and as they enter he insists on a blindfold. She complains but eventually concedes when he offers her the puppy dog eyes and the boyish grin.

God help them if they ever have children, she'll be like putty in their hands.

When the cab slows to a stop, he guides her carefully out of the car and onto the sidewalk. She smells warm apple cider and the rich nutty aroma of chestnuts. He walks her a few steps forward and she hears carols playing, a few more steps and the tinkle of bells. Her heart constricts, even without the benefit of sight, she knows exactly where they are. The Christmas Cottage.

He finally pulls away the blindfold and she gasps as he drops to one knee.

"Anything you like Kate," he says, repeating her mother's words , "but first, let me do this right."

She grins down at this goofy, loveable man of hers and wipes away a tear of joy as he speaks of his love of her. She doesn't register much of it, too caught up in the adoration shining from his eyes and the fluttering of her wildly beating heart.

"…so, Katherine Beckett, will you marry me?"

Her head bobs up and down and she finds herself speechless as shoppers mill about and chuckle, clap and offer cat-calls.

"Yes Castle," she finally manages, "of course I will."

He stands up then and pulls her into a crushing hug, all the air leaves her lungs but he sighs and breathes it back into her when his lips meet her own.

"Let's start some new traditions of our own," he whispers into her ear, before pulling her into the store.

They pick out an ornament for each other, one for Martha and Alexis as well. And while they are waiting to checkout, a silver ornament, an angel surrounded by a snowflake, flutters down from a tree above and lands on the counter.

"And this one," he says, reverently handing it over to the cashier. "For Johanna."

* * *

**Sorry about the delay, I hope the epilogue was worth the wait. Not too late to hit that review button though. It totally turns me on. **

**Much thanks to all who stayed for the ride. You guys made me insanely happy with the response this one got. It was supposed to be a quicky, porny one-shot. Turns out their was a big, fat load of feelings and back-story my brain wanted to explore. So to all of you who encouraged, cajoled, begged and threatened me within an inch of my life to finish this: _Thank you._**


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